The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,122

stay for a while?" I asked.

She shook her head. "You don't have to."

"I could keep Michael company, if you want to take a nap or something. You look like you could use one."

She moistened her lips, tasting the idea, then asked almost timidly, "A hot shower?"

"A hot shower," I agreed. "Followed by several million calories of spanakopita. Just what Hippocrates ordered."

She laughed despite her weariness.

After Ines had disappeared into the bathroom, I unpacked Erainya's Greek food plates, put them with their brethren in the refrigerator, then walked over to the living-room windows.

The apartment was saved by its view - three wide picture windows looking out over Woodlawn Lake, just above the fronds of the palm trees. You could see the Y-shaped piers below, the lighthouse, the jogging trails, clusters of waterfowl, sunlight turning the water to hammered silver. On the eastern horizon, rising above the live oaks, the yellow-capped spires of Our Lady of the Mount gleamed. I could just make out the tiny iron Jesus who stared down at the Poco Mas Cantina.

I turned to the apartment's interior. Not as promising. The living-room wallpaper was blistered pink, the ceiling water-stained and fixed with a tiny glass chandelier. There were heaps of moving boxes everywhere. Despite Ines' cleaning efforts, the carpet still smelled faintly of cat urine.

On the right, master bedroom and bathroom. On the left was the kitchen, and the short hall that led to Michael's room. His father's silk tie was lying in a melted P on the floor just outside Michael's doorway.

I thought about it for a good three minutes. Then I walked over and peeked in. No sheet cave. Michael's bed consisted of a stripped mattress and a sleeping bag. The walls were bare except for a little window that looked out on the trunk of a palm tree. Moving boxes were crammed into the tiny closet.

Michael sat cross-legged on the turquoise carpet, cutting out ads from a magazine.

He was still in his button-down and slacks but he'd pulled off his dress shoes and socks. His pale, bare feet were splotchy with chigger bites. He seemed completely focused on the toy advertisement he was cutting out.

When I'd visited the night before, Jem had come with me, bringing his PlayStation unit and a spare TV for Michael to borrow. Erainya had insisted. Poor paidi needs to learn these things. Donkey Kong as a life skill. Jem had done most of the playing last night himself, and the television was still on. As near as I could tell it was the same game. The basketball-dribbling dinosaur was doing continuous, pointless flips, waiting for someone to give it directions. Michael ignored it.

I rapped on the door. "Can I come in?"

Jem's PlayStation game kept cranking out the carnival music. I walked inside, sat down on the carpet, pressed escape on the gameset. It told me to enter my name. I was one of the high scorers. I punched in T-R-E-S, then shut off the TV. Michael finished cutting out the picture. It was an advertisement for a G.I. Joe. He looked at it for a second, then added it to a stack of cutouts next to him. "Hey, kiddo," I said. "You doing okay?"

"Uh-hmm."

He flipped a few more pages, set aside that magazine, and picked up another.

"We don't have Nickelodeon," he told me. "Jem borrowed me these."

"What're you doing?"

He shrugged.

"Can I look?"

He flexed his scissors thoughtfully a few times, then nodded.

The clippings showed action figures. Play-Doh kits. A Christmas tree that sang karaoke. Several other Christmas items. He must've found the December issue.

I thought about the little crumpled picture of a Christmas tree I'd found in Michael's cleaned-out room, two Saturday evenings ago, the last remnant of the sheet cave.

"Is this what you do when you're not zapping aliens with your ray gun?" I asked gently. "You collect art?"

Michael deliberated over an advertisement for an Erector set. "My wish list."

He looked as sleepy and grim as a late-night driver - no joy in his face, no indication that this toy-browsing was anything but deadly serious work. He started to cut out the Erector set.

"You want all these things for Christmas?" I asked.

He pulled his head in, rubbed his ear on his shoulder.

"Mommy threw the old list away," he muttered. "It wasn't invisible. I have to start over now. Daddy said, 'What would you rather have for Christmas - a lot of toys or a new home in San'tonio? If you don't get it, you